


Where You Are Is Where I'm Meant to Be

by prettyasadiagram



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Failboats In Love, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:55:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3188024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyasadiagram/pseuds/prettyasadiagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are worse things, Phil knows, than having the vast majority of the world—and Clint, but he can’t think about that for too long—thinking he's dead. But still, there are things he misses. Clint, mostly, if he's being honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where You Are Is Where I'm Meant to Be

**Author's Note:**

> This original midnight plot bunny was much funnier and more like “Clint keeps trolling qvc and hsn and buying random Christmas shit and weird knickknacks and having them delivered to Coulson's apartment. Coulson is like please stop why do you know this address i am secret director,.Clint,.SECRET!”
> 
> It clearly didn’t end up like that, sorry, but that's what happens when you write the majority of something solely between the hours of 11 pm and 3 am after too much family time.
> 
> As for being accurate with Agents of SHIELD timeline: hahahaha. To be honest, I did my best to keep things in line with what I remember happening, but any inaccuracies will not be fixed.
> 
> Thanks as usual to thatdamneddame for fixing my ending and making sure 3 am me didn't do anything too stupid.

There are worse things, Phil knows, than having the vast majority of the world—and Clint, but he can’t think about that for too long—thinking he's dead. He could actually be dead, for one. Loki could have won; Clint could still be brainwashed; Sitwell could have collected on their bet of who could find the most bizarre Captain America paraphernalia (he found needlepoint to that effect and Coulson knows when to gracefully concede.)

But still, there are things he misses. His apartment. Clint’s illegible chicken scratch and crude stick figures in the margins of his mission reports. That bodega down the street that had the best slushies. Clint, in general, even though they had barely progressed beyond pining looks and that one instance involving mistletoe and a Tony Stark party.

Which is all to say, that when Skye pokes her head into his office with a confused look on her face and says, “Boss, there’s a package for you from a ‘Legolas’? No return address, though,” he feels something small and tight in his chest give way just a little. 

 

It’s a canning set for idiots. Phil doesn’t know what Clint is trying to say or when Clint thinks he will ever have the time to take up making homemade preserves and sauces, but Phil would be lying if the sheer bizarreness of it all doesn’t bring a smile to his face. 

And if that small grin lingers for the next couple days and leads Mack to asking Fitz if there’s something wrong with him, well, Mack has seen him do stranger things than smile.

+++

Clint learns that Natasha has uploaded all of SHIELD’s secrets to the internet via text.

_From: Nat  
Hope you don’t have Google alert set up for your name._

_To: Nat  
no 1 uses galerts anymore, nat. it;s funcrionally uselss_

_From: Nat  
Enable autocorrect, please. It will be hilarious. Also, SHIELD = HYDRA. We’re salting and burning everything--Cap’s orders._

_To: Nat  
wait, wat_

 

He spends three weeks holed up in his apartment, doing nothing but taking Lucky for the occasional walk and poring over files, searching for anything relevant and, more important, useful. By day twelve, all he’s learned is that Sitwell was a traitor, SHIELD used a lot of sticky notes and G2 pens, Lucky gets very loud when ignored for more than two hours, and Budapest really was payback for landing Coulson with itemizing a year’s worth of receipts. 

“You smell like Doritos. When’s the last time you showered?” Natasha asks, sitting next to him on the couch and scratching Lucky’s ears when he comes bounding up to her.

Clint will forever deny that he screeches like a barn owl, will claim that he knew she was there from the moment she broke in through his bathroom window, but really, Clint’s been so buried in data that he’s surprised he can blink without his eyes sticking shut on principle. So yes, he screeches and maybe even throws his laptop at her like that will protect him.

“Jesus, Nat, knocking too good for you?” he asks, with as much dignity as he can muster while trying to pretend he didn’t almost fall off the couch. 

She stares at him. “I did knock. I knocked twice, and then breaking in was just easier.” She holds up a six pack. “Truce?”

Clint stares at her trying not to blink. It burns. “Holy shit, is that PBR in a _bottle_?”

 

There’s so much useless crap in the files that he’s just about to give in to Natasha’s unhelpful and frankly insulting—he knows how to use ctrl+f, thank you very much—commentary and let JARIVS comb through the remaining data when he finds something in a random folder titled SITWELL-VACA-DENIED.

The banality of it catches his eye, because really—is Sitwell that anal that he documents his vacation plans _that never happened?_ —and then his brain catches up and he says, “That lying motherfucker, Phil is alive.”

+++

Melinda delivers the next package, her mouth set in the firm line that Phil knows means nothing good for him and that he better have some aspirin handy. She sets the box on his desk very deliberately and raises an eyebrow. “Robin Hood? Really?”

Phil closes his eyes and prays he doesn’t laugh. “I didn’t tell him.”

Sighing, she pulls out one of his chairs. “I’m sure you didn’t, but he still knows. And that’s a problem. Especially now that we’ve gone dark.”

The package looks innocuous enough, and he knows that Clint is too smart to send anything that could be tracked, but Phil also knows that keeping this line of communication open, however one-sided, isn’t safe. Some breaks are meant to stay broken regardless of how much it hurts. 

But knowing all of that and bearing the weight of being the secret director of secret-SHIELD means nothing to Phil when he cuts open the box and finds an Elf on the Shelf staring back at him. The resulting laughter is ugly, painful, and sorely needed, and he ignores Melinda’s attempt at putting on a disapproving face. She forgets that he knows her tells and he sees that smile pulling at her lips.

When he wipes at his eyes and puts the Elf appropriately on his shelf, Melinda says nothing, and Phil knows that she’ll let this continue for a little longer.

+++

There’s a long moment of silence before Natasha grits out, “What?”

“Tahiti isn’t a place. Sitwell dug up _project_ T.A.H.I.T.I. and apparently Phil is alive. And leading a secret team that doesn’t include us.” 

The only sound is Lucky rolling a stupid ball across the room and Bill O'Reilly gasbagging as usual, and then Natasha pulls a handle of vodka out of a purse that Clint would have sworn was too small to hold something that size. “That fucker.”

 

The next twenty-four hours are a bit of a blur, honestly. Clint knows there’s pizza and Lucky stealing too many slices when he thinks Clint isn’t looking and maybe there’s Chinese food? Clint vaguely remembers talking about feelings and how Phil had strong hands and a great ass and maybe they were at the start of something, but there’s definitely coffee when he’s next aware of what time it is and Natasha is looking too chipper as she sharpens a fucking knife on his bed and asks, “Do we want to go find him?”

It’s too early and too bright for such a painful question. Not when the noonday sun and an excruciating hangover make it clear that Clint wasn’t dreaming or seeing things after too long without sleep. Clint can’t ignore that Phil knows Clint is still alive and he didn’t come. 

He says nothing and Natasha says nothing and Lucky whines for a walk. Clint rolls himself off the bed and picks up Lucky’s leash. Phil can wait.

+++

There are no new packages for a month. Phil stops hoping for one after the third week. He wonders if maybe Clint was sending those like messages in a bottle, the last resort of a lonely man, not even expecting a response.

Skye has taken to asking him about who Legolas and Robin Hood are, aside from fictional characters. Phil doesn't know how to say the sender of those mysterious packages was his past, could have been his future. How do you tell a rookie agent that personal lives will always come second, and even if you find someone in the same situation, there’s no guarantee?

Phil doesn’t have too many regrets about letting the Avengers go on thinking he’s dead. They needed the push and Phil has always done what’s needed—although not usually so dramatically. Now he doesn’t have to write up the after reports, has zero interaction with Tony Stark, and can entertain himself by imagining how often the vein in Maria’s forehead must throb. Saying it’s a win-win is a bit extreme, but things could be worse.

(These are the lies Phil tells himself during the day when he’s separating Hunter and Bobbi and hoping that Melinda doesn’t accidentally leave Skye behind as another training method. At night, when the silence reminds him of everything he left behind, he thinks about Clint. How he’d stop by Phil’s office with Ritz crackers and gossip. How he stood solid, rooted, like he could shoulder half the weight burying Phil and not even stumble. He thinks a lot about their one kiss and how warm Clint’s hands had been on his hips. 

And then he shoves it all back down and faces the day.)

+++

Clint comes back from walking Lucky and finds the apartment empty, a note pinned to his kitchen table that reads _Running errands._ Will be back. Without Natasha to force him to talk about his feelings, he takes the time to read through Sitwell’s file on Phil’s new team—and doesn’t that sting, just a bit—just so he’ll have something to prove he’s not moping.

Not that what he learns makes him any less unhappy. Phil’s new team is doing good things, helping people and moving faster than SHIELD was usually able. It’s hard to begrudge a man for doing good where he can, but Clint is willing to give it the old college try.

 

When Natasha finally gets back, Clint has upgraded from randomly walking around his apartment halfheartedly attempting to clean to throwing a ball against a wall for Lucky to try to catch. He’s also made up his mind about Phil. 

She settles next to him and gives him a nudge. “So what's the plan? Are we hunting him down?”

Rolling the ball slowly between his hands, Clint says, “Nope. Not yet. I just want to let him know that we know. Put the ball in his court. And then, I don’t know, hunt him down later if he’s still being difficult. But,” Clint breaks off, thinks again about how to say this, hopefully with as little _hello, look at all my issues and insecurities_ as possible. “He’s doing something good and I don’t want to mess that up.” 

From the way Nat stills, Clint assumes he wasn’t successful. He knows he’s got more issues than he knows what to do with—enough SHIELD therapists have hammered that point home—but he’s been practicing keeping all that shit down. Clearly, he still needs some work. Katie-Kate never buys it either.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Please.”

And that’s that. Natasha does nothing, except that a week later he finds an address left on his kitchen table. Clint means to send a letter, a text, anything, but instead he ends up sending a canning set he finds at Home Goods when he’s looking for a replacement blanket for Kate after Lucky ripped apart the one she left at the apartment. He drops it in the mail and immediately wonders what the hell he’s doing.

+++

The next box, when it finally arrives, is a bit battered and looks kind of like a dog chewed on it. Skye tosses it on his desk and says lightly, “‘Oliver Queen’? Really? I’m sensing a theme.”

Phil sets his pen down and refrains from clutching the box to his chest. “That the sender wishes to remain anonymous?”

“AC, come on.” Skye raises an eyebrow. “There are only so many archers—”

“Leave this alone, Skye. Please.”

“Just saying, if you can, hook a girl up? Feel free to—” She cuts herself off at his look and says, “Got it, leaving it alone, boss man,” and closes the door behind her. 

Phil takes a deep breath and reaches for the box. 

 

Not many things can surprise Phil these days. He’s come to accept that people are awful and he probably shouldn’t trust anyone. Clint Barton, as usual, is an aberration and a constant source of surprise. Inside the box is a needlepoint of Nick Fury on a unicorn, and Phil nearly breaks something laughing, wishing not for the first time that Nick had left an actual contact number behind. 

(Phil wonders what Clint is getting out of this. There's never a note or card, and Phil's made no overture to communication. Does Clint even know that Phil is receiving them? He must care, right? But even if Clint did expect a response, Phil wouldn't know what to say anyway. How is _sorry I let you think I was dead_ an acceptable apology by any standards?

These are thoughts that Phil has at three in the morning when he inevitably wonders if he should just regret everything.) 

+++

As he drops another box in the mail, Clint wonders if this one will be the push to make Phil reach out. A lack of return address wouldn’t stop him from finding Clint if he really wanted.

+++

Phil is unwrapping Clint’s latest present—a truly ridiculous coffee table book of chickens, from “Katniss”—when Melinda strides into his office. “This is ridiculous, Coulson. Call him. Just make him stop.”

“Agent May—”

“You’re both being pathetic. I expected this crap from Barton, but not from you. If you like him, fine, but this base is supposed to be a secret. _You_ are supposed to be a secret—and dead—so please ask Barton to keep his undying love for you on the down low.” 

Phil says nothing—this is nothing he hasn’t told himself already—and she shakes her head, turning to leave. Before she closes the door behind her, she says, “You are too old to play games like this, Phil. Get it together.”

+++

Clint wakes up and hears Christmas music from next door. It’s Christmas Eve and now he has that “War Is Over” song stuck in his head, as if he needs one more person asking what he’s done this year.  
 __  
To: Nat  
I miss him.

_From: Nat  
Then bring him home._

Lucky whines and licks at his face. Clint rolls to his back and says aloud, “Fuck this.”

Two hours later, he’s on a plane and Phil-ward bound.

 

Breaking in is kind of concerningly easy. Like, scary simple and he barely has to make use of the vents. However, it is actually pretty gratifying to walk into Phil’s office and see the most controlled double take ever.

Watching Phil deliberately set down his paperwork and say dryly, “Agent Barton,” is so normal that it’s almost enough to make Clint forget that SHIELD is Hydra and everyone else thinks Phil is dead. If it weren’t for the fact that his heart feels like it’s about to leap out of his chest and Phil looks so pale, Clint could be fooled into thinking this was just another debriefing. 

But, if Phil wants to pretend like everything is business as usual, so can Clint. “Sir.” 

There’s a long moment of silence where they just stare at each other, before Phil breaks and sighs. “Agent May has asked me to remind you that this location is supposed to be a secret and your packages are less than discreet.” 

“Well, I suppose I could have stopped sending them if you had called,” Clint says, and it makes something tight in Clint’s chest relax when he sees that Phil still fidgets in familiar ways.

Phil’s hand twitches toward his pen. “I had questions that needed answering before I’d be good for anything, and after a certain point it seemed kinder not to let you know.”

The way Phil carefully says _kinder_ gives Clint pause. With people they know, Phil is better than Natasha at talking around a subject, leading you in the opposite direction of the truth. Natasha just stares and makes it very, very clear that some topics are not up for discussion. “‘Kinder’ because SHIELD put some alien junk in you?”

Again, it’s so extremely gratifying to watch Phil swallow down his shock.

+++

Phil isn’t sure why he thought that Clint would see the list of reasons he should stay far away from Phil and actually understand that they’re there for a good reason. Clint has always been one to run headfirst where he shouldn’t be. It’s what makes him such a solid agent, albeit a frustrating one. As Clint talks about Sitwell and Natasha and how he’s adopted a protégé who might be stealing his dog, Phil decides there are some things that he cannot allow, and Clint staying here, getting hurt because of him, is one of them.

Explaining this to Clint is more difficult than he’d anticipated though. 

 

Eventually, Clint cuts him off. “It’s Christmas Eve and I missed you. I’m staying. Can we leave it at that for now?”

Phil wants to push, wants to make Clint see reason and leave, but Clint is holding himself like he’s already been shut down, and Phil hates to be predictable, is tired of denying that he’s missed Clint, too. But still, he has to ask: “What about the Avengers?”

The split second of naked relief on Clint’s face when he realizes Phil isn’t saying _no_ is heartbreaking. “They’ve got my number,” is all he says, though. And then, after a thoughtful pause, “And Natasha knows where I am. They can call if they need me.”

And, well, Phil is only human, and when he ducks his head to hide his smile, he sees something like hope in Clint’s eyes. Phil has made sacrifices all his life, but for once, he’s ready to be selfish.

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not repost this work in its entirety or share this work on third-party websites such as Goodreads.


End file.
